


For Hire

by Euphoric_Mandelbulb



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Castles, Douglas' Schemes, F/M, Gen, German swearwords, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humor, Humour, Liechtenstein - Freeform, Lyrics Not Included, Modern Royalty, Other, Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 06:22:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2611613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euphoric_Mandelbulb/pseuds/Euphoric_Mandelbulb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theresa is rather fed up with the various parties of corporate tourists who rent Liechtenstein (especially the ones who insist upon singing *that* song). With MJN staying over for a long weekend, and Douglas ominously bored, how many tourists will learn the error of their ways?</p><p>Set between “Xinzhou” and “Yverdon-les-Bains”. Spoilers up to and including “Xinzhou”.</p><p>Not a songfic, nor pure parody.</p><p>No offence intended (at any point) to those writers of fics which associate Martin with a certain Disney song (see end notes for further details).</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Hire

**Author's Note:**

> Rated T for occasional suggestiveness and fairly-mild German swearwords. 
> 
> Liechtenstein actually was available to rent (like a giant holiday cottage) for a while – see End Notes for details.
> 
> The main idea behind this fic has been sitting in my ideas file for nearly a year; the more topical part only occurred to me two weeks ago, so this fic's production has been a little rushed – hence it might not be as polished as my usual efforts.
> 
> Not beta'd, because I have no beta :-( Not Brit-picked, because I *am* British :-)
> 
> [Later note: Zurich-compliant.]

 

 _ *** _ MONDAY AFTERNOON***

  
“MARTIN, it's for _you,_ ” Carolyn bellowed across the Portakabin; “why aren't you taking this instead of making _me_ waste my time?”  
  
“Because it's _your_ phone, in _your_ office, and I didn't know -”  
  
“Did I say answer back? No. Since you don't seem to have noticed the implicit command, I suppose I shall have to spell it out: answer this phone or say farewell to the kettle.”  
  
There was a prolonged series of crashing noises as Martin stood up too fast, entangled his legs with those of his chair, fell onto his desk, eventually freed himself (with a little help from Arthur), and staggered into Carolyn's inner sanctum.  
  
(Below this cacophony, a sensitive ear might have detected a calm, measured tread casually heading towards the kettle, ready to stow it in some obscure part of G-ERTI if necessary.)  
  
  
  
The phone was shoved into Martin's hand, and Carolyn stalked out.  
  
“Er, I- um, hello?”  
  
“Hallo, Captain Crieff. I see the Dragon is twice shy once bitten.”  
  
“Wh- uh – I – er, er, er, Theresa! Hello! Sorry, I didn't realise – well, she didn't _say_ -”  
  
“ _Breathe_ , Captain. This is a business call. _Professional_.”  
  
“Right. Right, right, right – okay, yes, I-I – how may I be in your service, your Royal Highn- _Serene_! Sorry, sorry, your Maj- your _Serene Highness_!”  
  
“'Theresa' is also fine at work, Captain, as I believe I told you when we met.”  
  
“Yes! Right, sorry, _so_ sorry -”  
  
“So, when do you want to take this booking? _Much_ as I enjoy the sound of your voice, I wouldn't want to bore you.”  
  
“Ah, yes, right, so – so – um, booking?”  
  
“ _Yes_ , Captain. I would like to charter you for next Friday and the following Tuesday, and unless it's inconvenient I'd be willing to provide accommodation for you and your crew for the duration.”  
  
“Yes, that should be – accommodation?!”  
  
“At my own expense. Call it a royal boon.”  
  
“Certainly, your – Theresa. Very _, very_ kind of you, really -”  
  
“No problem, Captain. We never use the guest rooms anyway, might as well stop them going musty.”  
  
“... guest rooms? In... in _your_...”  
  
“In Vaduz Castle, yes.”  
  
“I thought -”  
  
“Correctly. We don't, usually. As I say, time to get some use out of them.”  
  
“Right. Um... right. So, this is for – just you this time? Or -”  
  
“Ah, no. You're to bring me to Fitton to collect the King, then take us back here.”  
  
“But it – isn't it -”  
  
“Term-time, yes, but his presence is required for an urgent matter of state. And mine is required when you collect him, because this _particular_ matter always makes him sulky.”  
  
“ _Makes_ him sulky?”  
  
“Sulkier. He'll be _insufferable_ , so warn your crew. That reminds me – the Dragon is invited too. Wouldn't want her pestering your mobile, after all... and there should be suitable _distractions_ for her nearby, yes?”  
  
“Well, I, um, I don't really know much about your tourist industry -”  
  
“In Zurich, Captain.”  
  
“Ah, right, I suppose so, it is a bit more -”  
  
“When he's not _flying_.”  
  
“Wh- oh! Yes, I see! Sorry, yes, perfect!”  
  
“So, see you on Friday? 2PM CET suit you?”  
  
“Yes, sounds lovely – er, I mean: yes, that fits in with our schedule, thank you very much for your custom.”  
  
“You make me sound like I'm _soliciting_ , Martin, you _naughty_ boy,” Theresa giggled, before hanging up while Martin was still spluttering.  
  
  
***

***FRIDAY MORNING***

  
“I'm not coming.” King Maximilian VIII of Liechtenstein was hiding under his bed, arms folded and body firmly slumped so as to act as a dead-weight.  
  
“Maxi, this is a _royal_ responsibility. You owe this to your people!” Theresa said firmly.  
  
“No, I _owe_ it to my people to be their King! I'm the King of Liechtenstein, so Liechtenstein is _mine_ , and anyone who says otherwise is committing treason! I should have their heads cut off!”  
  
“ _Maxi_! I thought we'd dealt with that nonsense! And you're still the King, you're just -”  
  
“Selling my birthright for a mess of pottage!”  
  
“...well, I'm glad you've been paying attention in lessons, now please do _me_ the same courtesy. You are not _selling_ , you're just _renting out_ some _honours_. Not your _title_.”  
  
“They _act_ like they rule, they won't address me by my title, they make a mess all through _my_ kingdom and they trample through my _castle_!”  
  
“Only the wine cellar, where you don't go anyway.”  
  
“They're drinking _my_ inheritance!”  
  
“Well, it'll be past-it by the time you're old enough! Now stop shouting and pack your bags, your pilots are waiting.”  
  
“I'm not coming.”  
  
“Er, your Princess? _I_ could pack his bags, if you like.”  
  
“You aren't trained in suit-folding, commoner!”  
  
“He's trying to trick you, Arthur. He has all the clothes he'll need at home, you just need to put his toothbrush and homework in a bag, with maybe some books and things. I'm sure you can work out what he'll want.”  
  
“No! I'm not having _his_ peasant hands all over my _toothbrush_!”  
  
“Then pack your bags, Maxi.”  
  
“I don't need to, because I'm _not_ coming.”  
  
“ _Maximilian Friedrich Adam Nikolaus Johannes von und zu Liechtenstein_ , this is your duty as the King! Now _do your duty_ this _instant_!”  
  
“ _Verpissen_ !”  
  
“ _Du_ _ kleiner _ \- ”  
  
“Shall I carry the King to his taxi, your Princess? It'd be like those chairs on poles from the olden days!”  
  
“Why, _yes_ , Arthur, that sounds _very_ regal! Then I can keep him buckled in while you pack his bags.”  
  
“All right! I'm packing! Happy now, _herrisch Mistst_ _ü_ _ck_?”  
  
“ _Thank_ you, Maxi.”  
  
“So... does this mean I don't get to -”  
  
“I'm afraid you probably don't, Arthur. But thank you anyway.”  
  
“Oh, it's probably just as well, really. Skip hasn't told me what the protocol is for picking up a King, and some of these floors look a bit hard.”  
  
“I'm going! I'm going!”  
  
  
***  
  
“Yellow car.”  
  
“So, Theresa, um, what's the royal occasion? If – if – if you don't – if I'm allowed to -”  
  
“No problem - you could have found it online, you know. Yet _another_ big corporation is renting Liechtenstein for three days, and Maxi has to be present for certain ceremonies.”  
  
“It's _sacrilege_.”  
  
“I think you mean _irreverence_ , Maxi. You're not _sacred_.”  
  
“No, because my title is God-given, so it's _sacrilege_!”  
  
“Maxi,” Douglas chipped in, “you do _know_ what happened to the last monarch to claim Divine Right Of Kings in this country?”  
  
“So, um... what exactly does _renting_ a _country_ entail? I mean, I knew it happened, from looking up Liechtenstein, but... what do they actually _get_?”  
  
“They fly their flag, mess around on the mountains, stick their logo anywhere they can think of, gawk at the buildings, enjoy some activities and so on, drink some of the King's wine -”  
  
“Which is _treason_.”  
  
“They've paid through the nose, Maxi, so it's just bribery. A fine royal tradition. Anyway, Martin: they're essentially using our country as their playground. It's some sort of treat for the bosses and the big investors.”  
  
“And they sing _that_ song,” Maxi said, suddenly brightening.  
  
“Maxi!” Theresa snapped.  
  
“What song would this be, your Majesty?” Douglas asked, with that dreaded glint in his eye.  
  
Maxi took a deep breath, preparing to launch into song.  
  
“Don't even _think_ about it, Maxi, unless you want itching powder in your crown!”  
  
Maxi's jaws snapped shut, and he slumped in his taxi seat.  
  
“They're an _American_ corporation,” Theresa explained, “so naturally they see a castle on a mountain and think of a certain film. Particularly after meeting _me_.”  
  
“What film? I don't – yellow car - get it,” Arthur said.  
  
“Arthur, how many films about a princess in a castle on a mountain do you know?”  
  
“... None that I can remember.”  
  
“It had a snowman in it,” Martin reminded him.  
  
“... but that's about a _queen_ in a castle on a mountain.”  
  
“Quite right!” Theresa said, smiling at Arthur. “Well remembered!”  
  
Douglas turned to look out of the window.  
  
“What is it? Oh, _God_ , we're not being _followed_ , are we? What do we - how do we shake them off without crashing into a tunnel? Douglas, _do_ something!”  
  
Douglas laughed. “Nothing of the sort, Martin. Just checking that the fabric of reality wasn't unravelling.”  
  
“ _What_?”  
  
“Well, this is probably the first time anyone's ever said 'Well remembered' to _Arthur_. It's even more disconcerting than Theresa calling _you_ 'lucky'.”  
  
Arthur nodded. “Memory's not my best thing.”  
  
“Well, the _Americans_ never seem to remember that she's a queen,” said Theresa.  
  
“What?! That's just silly! It's all through the film.”  
  
“Don't even ask. I think they just like singing that damn song,” she sighed.  
  
“What, the one about building – yellow car - snowmen?” asked Arthur.  
  
“No, she means -”  
  
“ _Quiet_ , Maxi!”  
  
“Oh, the one about cutting ice!”  
  
“Arthur, which song in the film is _about_ the castle on the mountain?” Douglas prompted.  
  
“ _Oh_! Of course! The one which ends up with her zapping her sister's heart!”  
  
A stunned silence fell over the back of the taxi.  
  
“... not the one I meant, but an equally valid answer. Anyway: Theresa, it occurs to me that perhaps it would be rather helpful if _someone_ were to ensure that _that song_ isn't sung any more than necessary this weekend?”  
  
“ _Douglas_ , leave Theresa out of your... _schemes_!” Martin snapped.  
  
“ _What_ schemes? I'm just offering -”  
  
“- to make her owe you a _favour_ , which you'll use to make her... I don't know, but _don't_! Just don't!”  
  
“Don't worry, Martin. I shan't be so foolish,” Theresa assured him.  
  
“It's – I, I never thought you would – I mean, you're _definitely_ not foolish...”  
  
“I'll pay you back on the spot, Douglas. We don't have any Talisker, but I hear you deal in wine sometimes?”  
  
“ _What_?! Theresa, no -”  
  
“An excellent decision, and one which does you credit. Might I request the Tokay?”  
  
“You may, and I shall respond with derisive laughter. The Petrus '05 should suffice. I believe your last bottle had an accident?”  
  
“Hey, Mum said it was good!”  
  
“Unadulterated, un-Arthur'd Petrus '05, Arthur, is somewhat _more_ than 'rather good'. And far, _far_ more valuable,” Douglas growled.  
  
“I'm _really_ sorry, but I'm still paying Mum back for buying my car back off you. I'll start paying you back – yellow car - as _soon_ as that's done, I promise!”  
  
“Don't bother, Arthur. I doubt I'll live long enough.”  
  
  
***

***FRIDAY EVENING***

  
“First Officer Richardson?”  
  
“How may I be of service, your Serene Highness?”  
  
“I believe I engaged you simply to prevent our... American _friends_ from singing one particular song?”  
  
“That's certainly what I recall as constituting my side of the arrangement. But as yet, their jet-lag has precluded any inclinations they may have towards singing of _any_ sort – therefore, I'm afraid I don't quite -”  
  
“Enough of this, Douglas. Just tell me what's happened to _every_ strapless bra from the welcome-ceremony costumes! Those poor dancers had to use up most of the country's supply of double-sided tape.”  
  
“Well, apparently it was supposed to be a _traditional_ _mediaeval_ welcome ceremony. I simply felt it my duty to add a little... realism.”  
  
“And, coincidentally, a little... hmm...”  
  
“... _joie de vivre_?”  
  
Theresa sighed. “I _don't_ want to know how you stole them, because then I'd have to fire someone, and once Maxi got wind of it that would mean sitting through _another_ treason trial. Just give them back!”  
  
“By Royal Command?”  
  
“And put the company flag back up while you're at it.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
Theresa pointed out of the window at the nearby flagpole, currently flying a hastily-adapted bedsheet which read (in shoe polish) “CLOSED FOR REPAIRS”.  
  
“That one _wasn't_ me, I assure you.”  
  
“And what do you think are the chances of my believing a self-declared master liar?”  
  
“You'll find all the evidence you need in Suite 3, still trying to get the shoe polish out of her shirt sleeve. The other half of the evidence, I'm afraid, is on his way back to Zurich so that she won't look 'soppy' by letting him stay in such a lovely suite.”  
  
  
***

***SATURDAY MORNING***

  
In the course of his attempts to escape the maze of twisty little passages (all alike), Martin was heavily dispirited by the sight of Carolyn apparently having the same problem.  
“I knew I should just have climbed out the window...”  
  
“And good morning to you too, Martin. Have you seen Arthur? He wasn't at the breakfast table when I went down, so I daresay he's lost somewhere in this mess.”  
  
“Wait, you know the way out?”  
  
“And if you find my son, so shall you.”  
  
“ _Definitely_ should have climbed out the window.”  
  
Martin's misery was interrupted by the arrival of a dressing-gown-clad Arthur... and five assorted servants, their giggles at odds with their smart uniforms.  
  
“ _Danke sch_ _ö_ _n_ , er... everyone!” Arthur called to the servants' retreating backs, as they ran the moment they saw Carolyn. “Sorry, Mum, I had a bit of trouble finding my way back to my room. I think I had a bit too much wine last night...”  
  
“Arthur, what on _Earth_ are you doing wandering around the _royal residence of Liechtenstein_ in a dressing-gown?! Didn't you _notice_ your en-suite, you witless dingbat? Go and get dressed before you cause an international incident!”  
  
“Erm... I sort of... that wasn't why I was out of my room, Mum... it's just, well, those servants were _really_ pleased with me last night for helping them – well, _trying_ to help them, and... things just sort of _happened_.”  
  
Martin was, to his own slight pride, the first to interpret Arthur's garbling and turn beetroot.  
  
“It's just as well there weren't more of them, really,” Arthur continued. “I haven't had much practise with my feet, you see.”  
  
Martin took one look at Carolyn's expression and ran in the general direction the servants had gone, his hands over his ears.  
  
  
***

***SATURDAY EVENING***

  
The King of Liechtenstein had been sent to his room for throwing a spectacular tantrum as the fifth bottle left the cellar, so Arthur was at a loose end. Forbidden by his mother from finding those lovely servants and repeating last night's adventures, he eventually sat in his suite and stared out of the window.  
  
His window had the best view of the concurrent fireworks display (Theresa had, unbeknownst to him, arranged it that way – just as Carolyn's suite was nearest the secret passage, Martin's was nearest Theresa's own rooms, and Douglas' was as far away as possible from everything not nailed down). This also put Arthur in prime position to hear the bangs, and even his rather unmusical mind eventually picked up on the various snatches of music which seemed to be formed by the blasts, scattered throughout the display. That one was “Without a shirt”... that one was the thing he used to ring on doorbells until Mum got a bit furious about it... that one sounded like the song Douglas sang whenever they had a long standby...  
  
He was a little confused by the last one, but guessed that whoever set up the display couldn't think of any posh songs about princesses or kings which could be done with the bangs available.  
Why else would a group of _Americans_ in _Liechtenstein_ be treated to “God Save The Queen” played with fireworks?  
  
  
***

***A BIT LATER ON SATURDAY EVENING***

  
After a long day of skiing, tobogganing, and watching less-wealthy people carve the company logo into the snow of a mountainside, the Americans seemed to be rather susceptible to the effects of the excellent wines from the castle's cellar, and the music player which had been fetched from somewhere was now being linked up to a karaoke machine.  
  
  
  
“All right, cue Stage 1. Martin, prepare to pay me back for Devon; Arthur, prepare to bring your previous experience to your latest role!”  
“Oh, am I bringing them teas and coffees?”  
Douglas sighed. “ _No_. Prepare to _shove_ some _piano_ , Arthur.”  
“Oh, right-o!”  
  
  
  
Theresa groaned quietly. With Maxi in bed and her mother claiming a headache, she was obliged to remain with the guests until they fell over. And she didn't like those looks they were giving her, the mountain, and... oh _no_. _Already_?  
  
At which point, there was a faint shuffling and grunting from behind her, and she turned to see the spare nursery piano wobbling through the shadows.  
  
“Right,” hissed a familiar voice, “cue Stage 2: The Sneaky Bit.”  
  
“Douglas, I-I-I really don't think I can stay out of -”  
  
“Well, _Arthur_ certainly can't, and even I'll admit I'm not entirely as svelte as I once was. But _you_ , m'lad, are ideal so long as your balaclava stays on.”  
  
“Do I _really_ have to wear -”  
  
“Move, move, move!”  
  
A resigned sigh in that more-familiar voice, then surprisingly little noise as a small slender figure crawled through the darkness to the back of the karaoke machine and plugged something in.  
  
The hideously-familiar piano introduction was replaced with... the _same_ piano introduction, only live?!  
Theresa snarled outright as Douglas coaxed the first eight bars out of the keys with far too much panache (hence she failed to notice Martin getting disorientated and crawling head-first into a wall with a loud thud).  
  
Then her anger slowly ebbed, as the rich baritone voice soared through the night air – bearing a cargo of palpable emotion.  
Only Idina Menzel herself could have outdone this rendition, and it would have been a very close call. Even the most dedicated asset-strippers and marketing executives soon put down their mobiles to listen; _Liechtenstein's Queen Mother herself_ stood at her window, looking _vaguely intrigued_ (an honour higher than even the Little Wobbly Stick of Liechtenstein).  
Nothing could distract those privileged to hear such magnificence – not even the commotion of Arthur Shappey trying to dance to the music, tripping over his own feet, and landing partially on the returning Martin.  
  
The final, haunting note eventually pealed out, and a fresh scuffling began as the piano-shovers realised their lack of foresight in not having set up a way to retrieve the piano without having to stand in the light. Eventually, they abandoned the instrument and fled from the slowly-rousing Americans.  
  
Thereafter, nobody really felt up to singing karaoke – none of them wanted to shatter the precious echoes within their heads. A brave few were heard to quietly attempt a few practise bars in secluded corners, but were soon muted by their own terrifyingly-unfamiliar feelings of inadequacy.  
Silence prevailed, and a great deal more fine wine was consumed. (Maxi, watching helplessly from high above, screamed blue murder to no avail.)  
  
  
  
“So, you fought ice with ice? I must admit, that would never have occurred to me. Congratulations, First Officer Richardson, you've earned your reward.”  
  
“And of course, for such a _splendid_ performance coupled with ingenious planning -”  
  
“Counterweighted by your _other_ antics. You're getting the Petrus. Accept it. Move on.”  
  
“Oh, come on! Don't say you weren't impressed by the fireworks?”  
  
“The fireworks were... certainly _very_ subtle. I don't think any of the guests realised that it wasn't 'Stars and Stripes Forever' at the end, so we haven't had any trouble over that... but you've also cost us the back panel of a piano, half a gross of strapless bras, and a lot of mechanics' fees.”  
  
“Oh, come on, that -”  
  
“Was you. Who else would want to delay the return of our guests from the slopes, _and_ would think to do so by putting milk of magnesia in every limo battery?”  
  
“... if you'll excuse me, your Serene Highness, I have a severely bruised and potentially-concussed Captain to attend.”  
  
“ _WHAT?!_ ”  
  
“Oh, didn't you notice? Really, how _remiss_ of you! Do come this way, I think you have amends to make...”  
  
  
***

***SUNDAY MORNING***

  
“Good morning, Martin,” Theresa said in surprise. “Should you really be out of bed yet?”  
  
“I'm _fine_ , really, I - and I wouldn't want to miss breakfast. Do, erm, send my compliments to the chef – or, or, um, whoever -”  
  
“I'll tell the cook how much you enjoyed it, though she might be a little startled. It's just muesli and bread.”  
  
“Yes, well, still, it's... very well made.”  
  
“I'll let her know. But, speaking of food: you and your crew will be dining with the Royal Family tonight.”  
Martin's coffee promptly went down the wrong way, and Theresa spent a few minutes thumping him on the back (while trying desperately not to hit any bruises, and only partially succeeding).  
  
“But – your mother – I – Carolyn – Douglas – _Arthur_ – oh _God_!”  
  
“ _Relax_ , Martin. Mother won't be at dinner. She refuses to dine with anyone who can't identify a fruit spoon.”  
  
“Oh, thank -”  
  
“She'll just show up quickly beforehand, to shake hands and favour you all with a look of disdain.”  
  
Martin moaned despairingly, his hands trembling.  
  
“She thinks this is just a PR sort of thing, to get cheaper flights and better service, you see...” Theresa continued, starting to sound a little nervous herself. “I... I have a bit of a confession, Martin...”  
  
“Oh _God._ I'm sorry – whatever it is, I'll stop it! Or I'll tell the others to stop it – or to do it, or whatever you need!”  
  
“Martin! Calm down, it's nothing like that! It's just that I haven't told my family about... well, _us_.”  
  
“...oh.”  
  
“Which is _nothing_ to do with you. Anyone else, I'm glad to be seen with you. But my mother... well, I thought it better to keep a secret than to not be free to see you.”  
  
Martin looked thoughtful.  
  
“Is that... okay? If you like, we can tell her tonight, be moral supports -”  
  
“ _No_! No, no, it's fine, Theresa, I understand. I, well... I haven't told my family either. Not for the same – well, not _quite_ for the same reasons -”  
  
“They're a bit... chatty?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Walls have ears, and all that.”  
  
“ _Oh_ , I see! Yes, that's - that's _definitely_ one problem. But also, they wouldn't even believe I was the _actual_ Captain, _the_ Captain, until Douglas _and_ Carolyn backed me up! They asked if 'First Officer' meant 'Captain's Captain'! So, if I told them about you...”  
  
“Yes, quite. But at least I can solve that, maybe, sometime in the future? My mother, though... she's unchanging. We could tell her after thirty years -”  
  
Martin's expression was indescribable (but generally positive, if somewhat anxious about being so).  
  
“- and she'd be just as outraged as if we told her today.”  
  
“It's-it's-it's fine, Theresa, really, _fine_. Common sense, even. Like you said, no point if she's just going to... lock you in a tower, or, or something.”  
  
Theresa laughed. “This is Liechtenstein; I can abseil. Anyway, it mostly just means that we need to be careful at dinner, because none of my family should know either – in case they let on to her.”  
  
“Not even Maxi?”  
  
“ _Especially_ not Maxi. He'd blackmail us, the little _Schei_ _ß_ _kerl_.”  
  
“Oh...”  
  
“If it helps, it'll just be me, Maxi and Lena at dinner. My other sisters are away at university, or school, or the orang-utan reservation.”  
  
“...orang-utan...?”  
  
“Maria has always felt a bit guilty about being rich and royal and so on, so she's volunteering in Borneo.”  
  
“Right... I see. Rather puts Simon's London Marathon attempts in the shade...”  
  
“Anyway, it's just a normal dinner for us, so you don't need to dress up... although you should _definitely_ wear your decorations -”  
  
“No, I don't want to be -”  
  
“ - my little Christmas Tree.”  
  
Martin blushed, smiling fondly. “Well... promise you won't let Maxi laugh about it?”  
  
“He'll be too busy grumbling about your Little Wobbly Stick of Liechtenstein anyway. And Lena wouldn't say boo to a goose.”  
  
“Did, um, have I ever told you about the time I had to ride in a truck full of geese?”  
  
“No; do I need to commission a medal for Goose Wrangling?”  
  
“Well, I wouldn't say... well, I-I _did_ put them in their place. One of them ended up as dinner!”  
  
“ _Ooh_ , you fought a goose to the _death_? Was it a matter of honour?”  
  
“Er, well, no, I... well, it sort of _was_ , in a way, I suppose – it _had_ stolen from me... um, but Douglas was the one who actually slaughtered it, though,” he eventually confessed sheepishly.  
  
“I take it there's no such thing as 'honour among thieves' for him, then?”  
  
“Hmm, no, not really, now I come to think about it – you should have seen what he did to Gor- to the man who tried to steal G-ERTI... and there was that thing in Douz, with the airport manager and the Scottish national cricket team...”  
  
“And a trained cormorant?”  
  
“ _What_? Douz is by the Sahara.”  
  
“Oh, nothing...”  
  
  
***

***SUNDAY EVENING***

  
Martin was rigid, from both nerves and his best efforts to stand to attention. Douglas and Carolyn had temporarily de-sharkened their smiles and returned both eyebrows to neutral; Arthur had been reminded that he was no longer an official crew member and sent to play Farm Animal Top Trumps with Herc.  
The Queen Mother's eyes swept back and forth along the attenuated line.  
  
“[Is this _it_?]” she asked Theresa.  
  
“They are exclusive, discreet, and their customer service is exceptional,” Theresa assured her.  
  
“[Discreet? They look like a circus troupe.]”  
  
“ _Mother_! They're perfectly capable, and both pilots are vastly experienced.”  
  
The Queen Mother's gaze settled on Douglas at that remark, and her expression soured further. “[Yes, I can imagine. Don't leave that one alone with the servants.]”  
  
Theresa and the crew didn't dare meet one another's eyes, lest they unwillingly betray poor Arthur.  
Fortunately, Martin broke the tension after a few seconds by blacking out. Apparently he'd been too nervous and tense to breathe properly.  
  
  
Dinner itself went smoothly, even with the need for Martin to remain almost silent (and Douglas to be bribed, and Arthur to be kept distracted). Lena seemed a little alarmed by Arthur's exuberance, especially when he knocked over the gravy-boat, but she didn't seem to mind sitting beside Martin - at one point, she even smiled at him. Martin felt a little guilty about his relief at not having to converse with someone of whom he knew so little, but Theresa assured him later that Lena had felt the same way.  
  
  
***

***MONDAY MORNING***

  
Douglas strolled nonchalantly away from the castle's kitchens, his work complete. All he could do now was hope that nobody -  
  
“ _Douglas_!”  
  
“Ah, good morning, Martin. Or, indeed: morning, good Martin!”  
  
“Stop it, Douglas. What have you done?”  
  
“What makes you think I've done anything?”  
  
“ _Every_ time someone's mentioned the glass marquee for the grand finale, you've made a joke about throwing stones in glass houses. _Please_ , just go and undo whatever it is you've done!”  
  
“Even _I_ can't de-cook food, Martin. Besides, it's already gone out to be served.”  
  
“OH _GOD_!” Martin fled at an impressive pace for one with legs so short. Douglas smirked, and followed more sedately.  
  
  
  
Martin peered frantically through Theresa's binoculars. Stones, stones... the dish of cherries! Some of the drunkest executives were having a stone-spitting competition already!  
He took a deep breath, not sure quite _what_ to yell but certain that he _should_ yell...  
  
… and a cherry-stone bounced harmlessly off the glass.  
Of course. Nowhere _near_ enough force. Silly of him not to realise.  
Hang on – was that _Mr Alyakhin_ in there?  
  
And at that moment, the catering staff behind the buffet table cut into the enormous pie which had just arrived from the Castle kitchens.  
  
A column of foam shot towards the roof, and rained down upon the nearest bystanders. Fortunately, the pie was behind the table, so only about a dozen actual guests were hit. Unfortunately, one of them was Mr Alyakhin.  
  
A harried-looking organiser reached the microphone as serving staff rushed in with trolleys of towels -  
and a shriek of feedback sliced through the air.  
  
The glass marquee, however, did not so much as crack.  
“Well, it's not as though anyone wanted to fill the Americans with _broken glass_.”  
  
“Douglas! What the _bloody_ hell have you been playing at?!”  
  
“The microphone wasn't even me, as it happens. I can't quite believe you _actually_ fell for the cherries, though.”  
  
“Get back in the castle! _Mr Alyakhin_ -”  
  
“Is somewhat preoccupied, and nearly a mile away. Wouldn't you rather know how I made cold pastry quite so waterproof?”  
  
“What – _why_ – HOW can you have thought it was a good idea to put an _exploding pie_ -”  
  
“Not _exploding_! That wasn't anything _like_ an explosion!”  
  
“Fine, _erupting_! It _does not matter_! They're going to _sue_!”  
  
“Martin, two things: I doubt that even the combined lawyers of that lot could bankrupt _Liechtenstein_ ; and nobody will have worn their best suits to a party with that much red wine in attendance. The Royal Family will pay the dry-cleaning bills, and all shall be well.”  
  
“You don't _know_ -”  
  
“Yes, I _do_.” Douglas held up his mobile. “I've just checked with our 'friend on the inside', and most of the soggy people are sufficiently drunk to be taking it in their stride. Even Mr Alyakhin has realised that Liechtenstein can afford the better lawyers, and is backing down. All is as I predicted. When am I _ever_ wrong?”  
  
“Sugar brick. Polar bears. Van keys.”  
  
“... all right, when I'm angry, point taken. But today I was merely _bored_ , so the likelihood that my plan would _gang_ _agly_ was somewhat lower than that of a snowball in Hell.”  
  
“ _Please_ take this seriously, Douglas! One of these days, you'll _kill_ us _all_!”  
  
“But it won't happen out of boredom, I can promise you that.” Douglas saw Martin's expression, and his smile faded a little. “And besides, if a plan ever does somehow go _irreparably_ pear-shaped... I suppose I'll _probably_ own up to save your hides. It's always useful to have someone owe you a _massive_ favour, after all...”  
  
Martin had no idea what he could possibly say to that, and eventually settled for an awkward smile.  
  
  
***

***MONDAY AFTERNOON***

  
“Oh, _go_ on, _please_? They're only legal tender for fifteen more minutes...”  
  
“ _No_ , I _won't_ let you exchange this much money, since you're then going to take it out of my country and leave us with worthless paper!”  
  
“But it's _my_ money!”  
  
“Douglas, unfortunately I _have_ to ask: how _did_ you obtain fifty thousand francs in United Consolidated Holdings' customised temporary banknotes?”  
  
“Poker.”  
  
“Not, for example, a dodgy lock on the Mint's staff entrance door?”  
  
“Your Mint doesn't _have_ a separate staff entrance, nor any dodgy locks. I _did_ check, just in case this came up. Besides, breaking-and-entering was never my crime of choice.”  
  
“So you _charmed_ your way in. And the passwords to activate the press?”  
  
“I never -”  
  
“ _Douglas_.”  
  
“No, _really_. I haven't been in your Mint. Order a forensic search if needs be! Some of the staff _from_ your Mint, however, do appear to love their jobs...”  
  
“So... _really_ poker?”  
  
“ _Really_ poker.”  
  
Theresa turned to leave, but Douglas continued:  
  
“And it turns out the passwords for the banknote press are randomised anyway.”  
  
“Hang on... _did_ you -”  
  
“No; _just_ poker.”  
  
  
***

  
***TUESDAY MORNING*** 

  
“So, Maxi, glad to have your kingdom back?”  
  
“It was always mine anyway!”  
  
“That's not what you were saying last week.”  
  
“... I realised that an exiled King is still a King! And that's official now. Theresa, write it down.”  
  
“Ooh, your Princess? I think I've worked out what song you meant!”  
  
“ _Really_ , Arthur?”  
  
“Yes! It's the one about loving someone even though they're smelly and pick their nose, isn't it?”

**Author's Note:**

> So, there seems to be a bit of a trend in fanfic lately to associate Martin (in various ways) with a certain song from the Disney film “Frozen”. Most of these fics are good, so absolutely no offence intended here or in my fic, but the song doesn't strike me as especially fitting for him – it's about finally giving in to *repressed* heart's desires, whereas Martin has never made any secret of his desire to fly nor attempted to quash it.  
> (For a song about finally achieving a seemingly-impossible lifelong dream, try: https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=jNmV5OjLNrY#t=19  
> Nothing to do with the similarly-titled song from the first High School Musical film, apart from one or two moments of probable parody (I haven't seen the film and don't intend to, but I looked up the song just to check for similarities).)
> 
> I didn't get a chance to mention this in the fic: Douglas has rather connected with *that* song from “Frozen” here, because it reminds him of leaving medical school (with the perfectly honourable excuse that his then-fiancée was pregnant – his first stag night was, canonically, at the age of about 21/22), finally dropping his perfect-son image to become openly roguish as he began to exercise his powers of scheming for a living (especially once he became a pilot for the smuggling potential, only to discover that he rather enjoyed the actual flying too). [Later note: not sure this backstory is 100% Zurich-compliant...]
> 
> “Mess of pottage” is a Biblical reference (Genesis 25: 29-34), which I only know because it turned up in a Discworld novel: Esau sold his status as first-born son to his brother for a bowl of pottage (stew).
> 
> The *actual* Princely Family of Liechtenstein's surname is “von und zu Liechtenstein” according to Wikipedia. Most of Maxi's middle names are from various real-life members of the Princely Family of Liechtenstein.
> 
> Look up the swearwords on Google Translate. They're not especially rude.
> 
> Arthur's summary of his car's faults in Kuala Lumpur doesn't include 'I have to pay Douglas to let me drive it', so he's probably regained ownership of it by then.
> 
> The American corporation is renting Liechtenstein per-night, hence why their visit starts with an evening and ends with a morning.
> 
> All of the Liechtenstein-renters' activities are based on actual activities offered when Liechtenstein really was available for hire on the website airbnb.com (£43,000/US$70,000 per night, minimum three nights and 150 guests). It doesn't seem to be available any more – as far as I can find out, nobody ever did rent it in our universe (one couple apparently booked it for their wedding, but then they broke up so they cancelled the booking). 
> 
> Alkaline substances, such as milk of magnesia (or alka-seltzers), will neutralise battery acid hence inactivate the battery. (Aspirin, which is acidic, can briefly *revive* a near-flat car battery.)
> 
> Anything Theresa's mother says is in square brackets to indicate that it's in German – at least partly because Google Translate couldn't give a decent translation of “don't leave that one alone with the servants”. (Inspired by CharismaticEnticer's use of this mechanic in “Die Anstalt” fics. Go and read those, by the way - they're great.) Theresa is replying in English to fool her mother into thinking that the crew don't speak German anywhere near as fluently as they actually do (because it would then be considered polite to converse in English in front of them), so her mother won't have the satisfaction of realising that they've understood the insults.  
> Theresa's mother's title is definitely Queen Mother, by the way – the title specifically indicates a Queen Dowager (widowed former Queen Consort, or potentially an abdicated former Queen Regnant) who is also the mother of the present monarch, rather than meaning “queen's mother”.
> 
> Lena: again, no room to elaborate in the fic – she's the youngest of Theresa and Maxi's sisters (in her mid-teens), very shy and nervous, being tutored privately at home because she couldn't cope with boarding-school. That's about as interesting as she gets. 
> 
> Tough, waterproof pastry (e.g. for pork pies or stargazy pie) is usually hot-water-crust, but that wouldn't work for the volcano pie because the Coke would go flat (there was a barrier of pastry separating the Mentos from the Coke until the pie was cut – I will admit to not having tested this IRL...). So I had to find a way out of actually explaining how Douglas did it, because I'm nowhere near as clever as him (or John Finnemore).
> 
> By “francs”, Theresa is referring to Swiss francs (which are also the currency of Liechtenstein).
> 
> Sorry if the ending is a bit abrupt. I forgot to plan a proper ending when I was first drafting this, so I came to the end of my bullet-points only to realise that I didn't have a punchline.


End file.
